


Justice Has Many Faces

by AGrumpyMercenary



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Gen, M/M, Masquerade Ball, i wrote this as a gift but then i couldn't figure out how to edit it on phone, many tropes, so i am re-submitting it, whoops i guess i'm dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25499515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AGrumpyMercenary/pseuds/AGrumpyMercenary
Summary: Ares and Seliph meet at a masquerade ball, but things go wrong quickly. Ares wants Seliph dead; his rage becomes the only thing tangibly real in a house of mirrors and illusion. Is it enough to make it out alive? It has to be, after Seliph loses Fee and Arthur to Julius' web, the only thing he has to cling to is the idea of what is true, and those golden pools with an angry undercurrent are the most genuine thing he's ever seen.
Relationships: Aless | Ares/Celice | Seliph
Kudos: 9





	Justice Has Many Faces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hardkourparcore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardkourparcore/gifts).



> I wrote this for hardkourparcore! I tried to edit it but couldn't figure out how to on phone, so I ended up deleting it and resubmitting it altogether. I am not good with technology. 
> 
> It's a very late birthday gift, and for that I'm very sorry, but I did my best. Spent a long time working on it, and I think that it's a fun, intense story. The pacing is very very janky and rushed, but to fix this would be to make it into a multi-chapter fic, and it was already so late. I set out to make this a oneshot, so a oneshot it shall be, bad pacing or not. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the read. I had no beta reader. We die like patrons of Arvis' barbecue.

It was both fitting and not that in the era of Loptyr’s rise Seliph would receive an invitation to a masquerade ball. They were beauteous affairs of excess and dance, disguise donned and masks removed; they were a key to the chains of existence, a temptation towards destructive passions. For what, truly, could be more terrifying than losing control completely? What could be more beautiful than dancing under the moon, whispering to the neck of a stranger, drunk on the song and on the stars in their eyes? The bouncing waltz, tables of food and fountains of wine, faces worn normally torn away, exposing the naked spirit in all its terrible beauty; it was a threat, it was an offer to be devoured in the most glorious way. It was an invitation on strings from a beautiful, terrible god. 

“The blood of nobles and those they keep  
Run quietly in the dark  
In prayer they bow and sadly find  
That I am hierarch;

Their words I hear and answers offer  
My little games arise  
Come one come all to masquerade  
In masks we will baptize

Offer yourselves and we shall dance  
I will not ask twice  
A peaceful performance will ensure  
No need for sacrifice

Solstice's eve demands your presence  
Failure begets blood  
Hope plays for you a quiet song  
But I will drown that bud”

Loptyr’s vessel was nothing if not a dramatic poet. Seliph peered over the parchment once more, tracing the red ink, wondering if on some level, that too was a threat. It was difficult to believe the promise of peace with cooperation when the mouth offering it was a gaping, hungry maw. They had debated its veracity fiercely; it was so blatantly malicious it couldn’t be described as a trap, but the dangers were clear. To heed the invitation was the possibility of facing death, to ignore it meant others would absolutely suffer in their place. 

Seliph had ultimately insisted he go while the rest stay behind should things go wrong. Everyone had protested, Lewyn in particular postulated his stupidity, but the choice was clear. Their goal was to stop Loptyr, but first and foremost their job was to help people; if they ignored those in danger then they were a poor excuse at liberators. 

Grudgingly, the plan was made. Julia and Lewyn were among the ones who had to stay behind, Fee would go because her pegasus could help with a swift escape, Athur could use wind magic to knock away arrows, and others would stay nearby the castle but out of sight, armed and ready. 

As he struggled into his tunic, a dark rubicund with sleeves larger than they had any business being, his stomach danced to the chorus of his thoughts. Was he too soft to lead? Was he betraying the people who trusted him most? The fur-lined overcoat did not settle on his shoulders easily; blue velvet somehow felt heavier than armor. It didn’t suit him. His mind was far too good at two-step dancing; would that his feet be half as skilled. 

The mask was the only part that felt natural. He had made it himself from some old yellow leather and a pegasus feather which he’d painstakingly sewn into the side. It was makeshift and clumsy at best, but it settled over his face like a second skin. He was ready for the stage that called his cue; every step towards the door felt a performance, and yet, as he settled into the carriage where Fee and Arthur awaited, the act was somehow not an act at all. The truest faces hid beneath flesh and skin, behind a facade of daily life. The masks revealed the most genuine reflection of the mind. There was safety in anonymity, Seliph could only hope that it would prevent death from finding them.

“Ugh,” Fee fidgeted with the sleeve of her dress as they rattled into motion, “These things are huge! I coulda hid my lance in this!” She wore a white ballgown that looked to be made of some sort of satin; it had pale green accents that shimmered in the sun like morning dew. Her mask was a matching green, dotted with beads, and her lips had something on them that sparkled. She could have been a dryad for all she looked; the light of the window framed her in a way that seemed to be present but not, like a fae tempting followers into the night. She was beautiful, Seliph thought--

“--They can’t possibly have any good reason to make every part of this thing so big!”

She was also quite right. 

“Maybe that’s what they’re there for,” Arthur laughed, “this can’t possibly be fashion.”  
The sleeves of his white undershirt were comparatively smaller, but no less offensive. He wore a blue waistcoat over it that was carefully embroidered with intricate silver swirls; it was buttoned one side over the other, and a cravat that was far too long and ruffled spilled out from the neckline. He toyed with it absentmindedly while leaning back in his seat. “All this discomfort can’t be worth it.” 

The phrase was uttered with a lighthearted lilt, but it was weighed down and quelled by the silence that followed. They looked at each other, in clothes and faces strange and new, waiting to perform a show they’d never learned. They were riding into a world of sharp teeth and edges, and even the most gentle of smiles had the potential to bite.

“… Maybe it can be,” Seliph said at length.

“I know, I know,” Arthur amended, “saving lives is worthwhile. I was just trying to keep the mood light.”

“No I mean-! Saving lives is most important but,” he leaned forward, “I was thinking… Maybe there’s some clues in Balhalla on where Tyrfing might be. I know it’s a longshot, but if we’re going to be there regardless, maybe we can poke around… Right?”

“It’s a better shot than we’ve ever had before!” Fee flashed an impish smirk. “Glad you’re doing the thinking instead of Artie.”

“Me too.”

“Jeez don’t be so hard on yourself!”

It was Seliph’s turn to laugh. “Arthur aside, we’re in agreement, right? We can stay close and look for a chance to slip out from the party to investigate.”

They nodded, but Arthur pursed his lips. 

“Not to be a downer,” he said, “but what do we do if we are separated? We should figure that out now.”

Seliph’s gaze slid to the floor. “No matter what happens the goal is to not let death find us, and if he does, we make sure to get away,” his voice was soft. “If we’re separated... forget about the others, just focus on getting yourself out alive.”

His voice trailed off and no one answered. No one nodded. No one dissented. The remainder of the ride was made in silence.

\----------------------

When they exited their carriage and stepped onto the scalloped brick road, the sun had bathed everything in gold. Before them stood a wide marble staircase, and beyond that the parapets glowed. There were a series of spires to the far side, twelve for the twelve crusaders, that surrounded the inner main tower. It reached towards the sky, threatening the very clouds. 

Fee fell into stride in the middle of their group, hooking her arms around theirs and pulling them close enough to speak. “If there’s anywhere to keep fancy things and secrets,” she murmured, “it’d be in a dramatic tower like that.”

Seliph hummed in agreement. He had to crane his neck to see the top; it made his stomach lurch with vertigo. “Remember the plan,” he replied. “Stick together and look for an exit. We can try to work upwards from there.”

They made their way up the stairs and through a grand door, where they were led down a hall with a lavish red carpet and towering tapestries. Seliph tried to memorize the number of rooms and corridors that branched off their path, but there were so many that it seemed as if they repeated. 

Eventually they stepped, blinking, into a room where the lights danced off the marble, scintillating like waves in the sun. Between the flying buttresses the walls were coated in delicate stucco of dragons at war that rose to the ceiling and culminated in splashes of vibrant color. They seemed to swim beyond the candlelight of the chandeliers, which themselves floated delicately like jellyfish in the tide. 

People of all shapes and sizes drifted between the dancefloor and the tables laden with food and wine. The music rose and fell, couples spun in a gentle push and pull. Beyond that, sitting on a chair too elaborate to be called a chair but not grand enough to be considered a throne, Julius looked down at his catch. 

“Why bother wearing a mask,” Arthur muttered, “if you’re just gonna make it obvious who you are?”

“Who cares?” Fee replied. “It doesn’t look like he’s noticed us yet.”

“Then let’s get moving before he does,” Seliph nodded at each of them, and then, when the music hit another flourish the three of them dashed into the bouncing swing of waltz, leaping midstream into whatever partners would take them around the eddies. 

He scanned the crowd as he sailed between one partner and the next, keeping careful track of Fee and Arthur’s masks. The room had various exits, at least eight, but with all the spinning it was impossible to tell the direction of the ones less guarded in relation to the main tower. He was grateful that no one reacted to him stepping on their feet; it was hard to count steps and doorways at the same time. 

The next swing brought him to someone with wiry pale hair and empty, silver eyes hidden behind a mask reminiscent of a crow. Around and around they went, until the music rose once more and they swung away. The extravagance of it all began to blur into something all together unmemorable as time passed, the sparkling dress and decor were too saturated, too heavy, that they sank away in his mind. It was easier to focus on the red velvet vest that passed by, decorated only by vertical seams, bright as the sunset but somehow still a rest for his senses. Warm blond hair spilled over it, hidden under a mask shaped like the skull of a horse. The nose cast the face beneath in shadow, but through the holes where eyes had once been a golden gaze leveled with his own. They were mottled with reddish brown, like plants and branches buried in a lake bed, and Seliph thought he could see, deep in their depths, a tumultuous current of thoughts. For a moment he was caught in the riptide, almost drawn under, until another flourish turned them both away. The bone white of the mask contrasted the crowd, and Seliph watched it drift across the room. He wondered if those eyes were doing the same for him, waiting for him to drown.

“...liph, heyyy, Seliph!” Arthur playfully tapped his cheek, “you spin too much or something? Or am I just not good enough for your attention?” 

“Of course not!” He felt his cheeks flush, “I-I mean you are, just that I didn’t spin too much. Sorry, I was thinking, that’s all.”

“Right,” there was a huff of laughter, “well I’m thinking of going for the door over by the seats, in the corner near the Julius’ ‘throne’. Everyone’s dancing, so no one’s using them, and if we went for one by the food or wine, we’d run the risk of being seen.”

It took Seliph a moment to find the door that Arthur spoke of, nestled in the corner not too far away. “You’re right,” he agreed. “I think we can work our way over there before the music makes us switch, but what about Fee?”

“You think Fee is gonna let anyone lead her away from where she wants to go?”

“Right again,” Seliph smiled, “Let’s go. We’ll meet her there.”

Arthur spun him around, dodging another couple with feet that seemed to float. His movements were magic, carried by wind, and as he lost count of his own steps, Seliph wondered if Arthur’s were guided by the spirits of legend. He recalled stories, when he was young, of mages traversing easily over rough terrain because of their inner guides. It felt naive to hope they were true, but they were navigating the teeth of jaws poised to bite; hope was all they had. 

At the edge of the dance floor they broke away and bowed, before falling in step towards the door. Seliph felt the hairs on his neck stand on end.

“Do you think we’re being watched?” he asked.

“I’m not about to look back and find out,” was the curt reply.

Only when they were safely out of sight did he let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “How long do you think it’ll take Fee to make it?”

“Puhlease Seliph,” She stepped out from behind an elaborate vase, fixing her skirts. “Once I saw you guys heading this way I manhandled my partner, stepped on his foot, and then pretended to get embarrassed and left. He didn’t have time to react!”

“I told you,” Arthur said with a smile. 

“You did.” Seliph breathed a sigh of relief, then cast his gaze around. “I’m not sure where we are in relation to the main tower, but we can probably find some stairs to start, right?”

Fee shrugged. “It’s not like we can really do anything else.”

There was a moment of hesitation then, a childlike fear that was more authentic than the elegance they wore. War was simple. It was battle and blood and death. It wasn’t beautiful, it wasn’t refined; the only masks required were the ones that blocked out atrocity, the ones that let them move on. There were no children in war, but Seliph felt very small in that large hall dotted with looming paintings.

They set off slowly, as quietly as they could manage, dodging around corners and behind furniture. The music faded by the time they reached the first staircase, a tall thing of stone, and the silence that fell into step behind them whispered the passage of time. As they passed by yet another tapestry that he was certain they’d seen before, Seliph wondered how anyone could find their way around. 

“Guys, wait,” Arthur stood near a window, beckoning them. “Look, you can see the big tower from here. It looks like if we continue this way and to the left, we’ll get to a spot where we can keep going upwards.”

Seliph followed his gaze. “It seems easy enough,” he agreed, “but… maybe it’s too easy.” The silence rang in his ears. “There should be guards all over, but the halls have been completely empty. Something isn’t right.”

“I don’t know,” Fee shrugged, “I’ve been hearing the occasional whisper from some of the rooms. Maybe we haven’t seen any guards because they’re all around the ballroom.”

“Maybe,” Arthur brought a hand to his chin, “I did see a few around there, but not many. Seliph is right. There should be guards all around the castle with so many people here.”

“Even if he is right, what can we do?” Fee’s voice was soft but shrill. “We’re literally in the fancy house of the most horrible dragon-posessed-person ever. If we turned back and went to the main hall, would we be any safer? And we can’t just leave, because if we leave before the party ends, then some kids will get sacrificed and it’ll be our faults!”

They looked at each other, then to him, and Seliph felt his heartbeat quicken. He closed his eyes and took a slow breath, willing it to fall back into a normal rhythm. The air suddenly felt too heavy, his mouth suddenly felt too dry, and he licked his lips before speaking.

“...We knew this was a trap when we accepted the invitation in the first place,” he said slowly. “So, if we turn back now, all this danger will be for naught.”

He set off down the hall, and they fell into step behind him. Somehow it seemed too long before they reached the end and turned left; he wondered if the silence was lying about the passing minutes. It was too deafening for him to count his steps. They went up another staircase, down another hall, more paintings, more tapestries, more statues. It all looked the same. It all felt too long. The sunset caught his eye through the windows they passed by, and his mind drifted back to golden pools staring through him, to a mask as white as death. He looked at the tower in the distance, framed by light, poised towards the sky like a blade waiting to drop.

Then he stopped in his tracks. “Guys, this is the same window as before.”

“What?” Arthur’s voice cracked incredulously, and he clamored to see for himself. Slowly his face twisted in confusion. “...That’s not possible, we’ve gone up at least three staircases since then.”

“You’re right, but here we are.” Seliph frowned, bringing his thumb to his lips to bite his finger. “Do you think Julius cast some sort of ward to keep people from even being able to get to the tower? Does magic work like that?”

“I don’t know, it’d have to be pretty advanced stuff assuming it was even possible in the first place.” Arthur turned back to him, opened his mouth to speak, and then slowly closed it. His gaze was focused past Seliph. “Fee? You okay?”

She had wandered down the hall, and when Seliph turned she seemed nervous, shifting her weight. Her eyes were closed. 

“Do you hear that?” She whispered. He glanced at Arthur, who shrugged. 

“Hear what?” He asked. “I haven’t heard anything since the ballroom, really.”

She folded her hands behind her back and tilted her head. Seliph tilted his head too, and slowly, a sound became apparent, a whisper he couldn’t quite make out. If Arthur heard anything, he gave no indication, instead crossing the distance that Fee had made. 

“We need to keep moving,” he murmured.

Fee slowly opened her eyes. “I know,” she said, “but it’s mom’s voice…” Her voice trailed off as she stepped towards a door. Had it always been there? Seliph couldn’t remember. She reached towards the handle, and a small voice in the back of his mind told him to move, to stop her, but louder than the voice was the whisper, incomprehensible but demanding. He was rooted on the spot. She was opening the door. 

“Fee, no!” Arthur’s voice rang out, somehow distant despite being so close. He grabbed her arm, and in a flash of light they both were gone.  
“Guys!” Seliph sprang to where they once were. He felt along the wall, but only the coolness of stone met his touch. Slowly, his hand fell back to his side. The whisper was still there, above the roar in his ears, and he took a deep breath, willing himself to focus on something else.

They were alive. They had to be, because if they weren’t their blood was on his hands, and he was already carrying too much. His heart thrummed in his chest. He tried to ignore the sound of metal on metal, the sound of a sword unsheathing. Illusory magic was defensive; it tricked the senses but it wasn’t supposed to hurt. It hadn’t hurt them, it couldn’t hurt him, but the stone had been hard beneath his fingertips, and when he turned, the blade looked equally vivid.

The one who held it sat on a horse as black as night, clad in armor that obscured his face. It was impossible to see his eyes, but Seliph could feel them, their hatred. The hall was large, but it was small compared to the man before him; his bloodlust filled the space his body did not. It was as if death had found him, despite his disguise, and as the horse shifted and lowered its head, Seliph felt his stomach drop.

He whirled away and ran full pelt; thunderous hoofbeats pounded the carpet behind him. As he whipped around a corner, he saw a decorative vase at the edge of the hall. He threw it over to shatter in his wake, but his pursuer hardly faltered, Seliph glanced over his shoulder as the figure gracefully leaped past the obstacle. He might have wondered if the hall had always been large enough to accommodate such a maneuver, but as it was he was more focused on the burning in his lungs. 

The man drew closer, raising his blade. Seliph could make out the hilt, a dark thing with jagged horns on the side; they looked bone-like, with white gold gilded on it like wrapped string. Then he ducked and tumbled, and the blade whisked by his ear, close enough for him to gasp. He caught himself, turned, and took off in the opposite direction. It bought him time. The horse neighed loudly as it was forced to an abrupt stop. He didn’t watch to see it turn around. 

The corner he’d turned earlier seemed much further away. The hoofbeats behind him started once more. His chest hurt. His legs felt heavy. He ducked to the left, grabbing the handle of the nearest door and jimmying it. It stuck for a moment, the thunder grew louder, but when he shoved his weight against it it gave way and he tumbled through. 

He fell to a hard marble floor and scrambled to his feet. The sound of a bouncing waltz danced over his panting breaths. People glided over the floor in pairs, even Julius was exactly where he had been, sitting above watching the crowd. No one looked his way. As he took the time to compose himself, Seliph counted the doors, the windows, the chandeliers. All was as he remembered them, but did that mean they were real? Fee and Arthur weren’t there. He wondered if their illusion was as strange and terrifying as his own. 

Reflexively, he moved to bite his thumb again. They always told him not to do it, to take deep breaths and hold his head high; they made it seem so easy. Seliph’s stomach tumbled over itself, unable to maintain balance alone. He reached up to run his hands down his face but was met with the cool leather of his mask. He couldn’t afford to take it off. 

“Hey, you,” a flat voice drew his attention. “What’s your name?” Seliph recognized the horse skull from before, the gold eyes it shadowed were hard as they bored into his own. 

“My name hardly matters,” he replied at length, choosing his words carefully, “I am not who I was before I donned the mask.”

The man wore a red tunic, velvet, with a small belt around his waist and a black undershirt. The contrast was stark, like blood against the night sky, and Seliph found himself thinking of the vision in the hall. Had death and his horse found him once more?

“A useless answer.” The icy words were cold enough to burn, and it sank into his bones, raw and vicious. There were few things bitter enough to leave a man so thoroughly frozen. Seliph felt himself shiver.

“I have no name,” he insisted. “I am whoever fate needs me to be.”

The stranger stepped closer, grabbing him by the wrist with a hard grip. “Then let’s say I’m Fate,” he replied, “and I’m calling you Mine for this dance.”

There was no time to protest. Seliph stumbled as he was as dragged onto the floor; the man’s steps were clumsy, lacking confidence. It was a perfect imperfection melding into one awkward waltz. It was real. It was golden eyes on blue, a current beneath their icy surface. It was deeper than any illusion, and for just one small moment, he thought about swimming down. 

“… You seem lost,” he murmured at length. 

“Lost?” There was a rumbling chuckle. “No. For the first time in my life, I’m finally found,” his grip tightened, “because I found you, Seliph Chalphy.”

He felt his face twitch. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“You would continue to play games?” He pulled them closer, until their chests were touching, until he was bearing down on him, until Seliph was certain the thrum of his heartbeat was what they were dancing to. “Very well, then allow me to introduce myself.” His words dripped with venom. “I am Ares, the black knight. You may recognize me as the son of Eldigan.”

“Eldigan?” Seliph’s eyes widened. “You mean Eldigan of Nordion?”

“The Lionheart, yes…” Ares trailed off, but he stared, unblinking. The weight of his gaze was crushing. “The very same man that your father, Sigurd, murdered in cold blood.”

There was a moment of quiet between them. The waltz sounded garbled beneath the water. Seliph’s breath quickened. His mouth felt dry. His mind struggled to swim through the thoughts rushing in. “That’s…” He sucked in a breath. “Our fathers were close friends, closer than any other. They passed tragically but… What you’re saying cannot be…”

“Cannot be?” They spun, and Seliph’s feet slipped from under him as Ares dipped him low. They held there for a moment that felt like forever, helpless beneath the waves. “Do not tell me what can and cannot be. My mother was filled with rage and grief at Sigurd! She drowned in her pain and you would claim friendship?!”

It was cold, but like those moments in the night where the air burned the skin, there was clarity, painfully sharp. Ares was a man on fire, capped in ice, waiting to crack. Seliph saw his own distorted reflection in those eyes. He wanted desperately to melt away the flaws, but his chest was heavy with the words he spoke. 

“I want to ease your pain.” Their faces were close, close enough that he could feel Ares’ breath against his nose, “but I have only gotten as far as I have with the help of people who believed in my father. I carry his ideals, so I… I cannot apologize.”

“Stop pretending to be sad.” He was yanked up, and they began gliding across the floor once more. “The sins of your father fall to you, fall to me. If life is a dance then our feet fall where theirs once were. The steps they taught can’t be altered. Your father killed mine. The only way to finish the song is for me to kill you.”

The mask hid his tears, but Seliph’s voice trembled. “Such hatred… must hurt so much,” he murmured.

Ares missed a step and landed on his foot. “Such hatred is what’s carried me this far,” he retorted.

Seliph didn’t flinch. His gaze never faltered. “You’ve been alone all this time… With anger as your only comfort but,” he shook his head, “my life is not mine to give, and even if you were to kill me, you’d never be whole.”

Ares pursed his lips, the only sign that he was considering their conversation at all. For a long moment he said nothing, instead choosing to stare unblinkingly. His eyes were probably beautiful when thawed. 

“How do you know what would and wouldn’t make me whole?” He asked at length. 

Seliph smiled, a tiny, trembling thing. “I suppose I don’t,” he admitted, “but you aren’t happy right now, are you?”

Ares’ lips slowly pressed into a sneer. “Let’s entertain your idea then.” His tone was mocking, but his gaze was turbulent. “Assuming I wasn’t ready to kill you, what would you propose instead, in this happy, perfect world of yours?”

The final notes of the song rose high and then drifted down around them. As they fell, Seliph broke away and bowed with them, one hand behind his back, the other offered formally. “That’s simple,” he lifted his head just enough so his mask hid all but his eyes. “Come with me.”

“Come with you?” The words were echoed softly. In the eyes of his hurricane there was a quiet threat, a distant roaring wind that wanted to turn the world upside down. Seliph was a tree, bowed, branch offered. The storm screamed for his roots to be torn asunder. Ares’ hand reached, slowly, struggling through the cold, but then it froze, and retreated. 

“Enough with the games!” In an instant the rain hit, icy and wild. A flash of steel glinted in the lighting; Seliph sprang to the side as it flew. He heard the deafening thunk of a blade sinking into flesh, and then all was still. The music stopped, the dancers stopped, the world stood frozen solid.

He breathed slowly. Nearby a woman stared with a hilt protruding from her neck. His heart skipped a beat when he realized there was no blood. Her eyes were just as empty as any of the others he’d danced with earlier. Everyone was looking. He could feel Julius’ gaze. 

“They’re all dead,” Ares staggered back. Seliph hardly heard it; his veins thrummed with a wild, raging, torrent. It flowed through his heart, flooding his entire being. He had never felt terror before. It left him gasping for air, struggling to stay afloat. A hand wrapped around his, dragging him. The world was spinning. 

“Move, dammit!” The words brought him to the surface, and he found his footing. They ran through the nearest door and tore down the hall. Behind them echoed deafening, otherworldly screams. It reverberated, dancing with itself in a tangle of death. He heard the clatter of footfalls, boots and heels, tearing fabric and gurgled laughter. 

He squeezed Ares’ hand as they turned a corner. A large arch loomed in the distance. He could see the ballroom beyond it. People tumbled through it, clawing over each other with no rhyme or reason, gray skin stretched over tight frames, empty eyes and broken jaws. They lumbered closer. The roar behind them grew louder. The din threatened to swallow them whole. Seliph’s gaze darted around wildly.

“There!” A door stood between them and oblivion, and he dashed towards it. A screaming blur flew in before he could force it closed, barreling into Ares, breaking their grip. He shouted in shock. Seliph struggled with the lock. The wood creaked under the weight pounded against it. 

Around the room things shattered and fell as Ares held back the hands of a woman. One of her eyes lolled from her head. Her dress had been torn in the chase, revealing purple skin and exposed bone. She shrieked like a banshee as she lunged towards him, teeth bared. He fell and they tumbled, until he was on his back and she was fighting to bite his neck. 

Seliph looked around frantically. The room was an office, but the only thing not upturned was an old wooden desk in the center too heavy to move. Behind it was a large, arched window that took up nearly the entire wall, partially covered by thick velvet curtains. He lurched and grabbed one, straining against its height until it tumbled down upon him, before he whirled around and tackled the woman. Nails dug into his cheek as he rolled and she thrashed, becoming hopelessly tangled, Ares leapt over to tie off the ends as he scrambled to his feet. 

“Thanks.” Blue eyes met gold, but the ice was still there. 

“That door won’t hold for long.” Ares looked away. 

The wood had begun to splinter. The woman had already freed an arm. They stepped back until they were leaning against the desk. Seliph’s hand rested on a book. It hadn’t been there before. He picked it up and drew it to his chest. It wasn’t much of a weapon. His gaze darted around. 

“The window!”

“What?!”

Seliph looked at Ares. “It’s the only option we have.” He reached out his hand. “Come with me.”

“You’re mad.”

“Look,” the door was starting to crack, “We’ve both been left with the burdens of our parents. We’re both stumbling in their footfalls, but this dance you talk about isn’t going as you or I planned, so... We should make our own steps, because if we stay here, we will die, but if we jump, we might live.” 

Ares breathed a sigh through his nose, but his glower was halfhearted. “Fine.” As he laced their fingers together the door finally gave way; death flooded through like roaring thunder. They ran for the window, and the glass shattered in a thousand shards of ice. 

There was a moment as they fell, when the wind hit his ears, that everything seemed to slow down. Seliph recalled many such moments. When life threatened to leave him he often closed his eyes and among the flashes tried to remember his parents. They never came to him. Perhaps he had become too familiar with that space between worlds; the only thing that he could think of in that particular moment was how warm Ares’ hand felt around his.

They crashed onto something that knocked the air out of him. His eyes flew open but the world spun too much for him to gather his bearings. He recognized vaguely the sensation of slipping, a horrific scraping sound, and the hand around his tightening painfully until they fell still.

They had fallen onto the roof of a spire decorated with stone dragons. It was steep. Ares held him in place, face scrunched with effort; his other hand clutched the hilt of a knife that he’d embedded in the shingles. As he caught his breath, Seliph noted that they hadn’t fallen far. If they survived the whole ordeal, the bruises later wouldn’t be particularly fun, but nothing was broken. 

“How many knives are you hiding?” He eventually asked with a breathless laugh. 

“This was my last one,” was the grunted reply. “I was going to use it to kill you, but death didn’t want to listen to me today in case you haven’t noticed. Brace your feet on that statue.”

Seliph did as he was told, and as Ares breathed a sigh of relief, he smiled.

“...You saved my life. Thank you.”

“You saved mine first when that lady attacked me, so we’re even. I still don’t trust you. It’s just that your eyes are so helpless” Ares looked away. “You’re too gentle for this war.”

Seliph’s smile softened. “You’re right. I never really wanted to be a leader. I’m not particularly good at it either,” he paused, staring out towards the horizon. “...but if not me, then someone else would have to bear that burden. Fate deals a cruel hand. How we play it is up to us. It’s not much freedom but… I want to help people with what I’ve been given.”

He heard a soft sigh. “You keep mentioning that. Earlier at the dance you said you were ‘whoever fate needs you to be’.” When he looked back, Ares’ gaze met his own, but it rolled over him in a gentle wave. “So do you really want to help people? Or is it just an obligation?”

Seliph was quiet for a long moment. Idly, his free hand thumbed the book he’d grabbed before. He wasn’t sure how he’d held onto it. “I’d like to think that I’d help people regardless, but… I suppose I’ve never thought about it.” He admitted at length. “...What about you? You said before to ‘suppose you are fate’. Do you truly want to kill me? Or do you feel like you have to?”

Ares averted his gaze and his lips pressed into a hard line. Seliph thought for a moment he’d touched a nerve, but the words that followed lacked any bite. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “My mother always told me how my father was the paragon of knighthood, and how Lord Sigurd had claimed the same mantle but killed him regardless. I live by my father’s ideals, the idea that a knight must bear the burden of justice no matter its weight, but…” He trailed off, and for a long moment there was silence. Seliph let him hold it; it felt like the sort of thing that would shatter if touched. 

“You are too modest. You’d help people regardless of what our fathers left for us,” he continued at length. “But me… our parents’ battles… War seems glorious when you hear the tales. The ones of my father are no different… But in actuality the leading lords don’t often know the names of those who follow them into fire. The ones I’ve worked for preyed on young dancers, and the men who fought under them, the knights… They are hungry and worked to the bone, they watch their brothers die and steal from their corpses so that they might live another day.” His grip on Seliph’s hand tightened. “We fight and fight and fight and our swords drink blood like it’s cheap wine and it’s never enough. At what point do we become what we claim to fight against? Is that what a knight is? Is that what justice is?” A sharp breath passed through his lips, and his frame slackened. The ice had somehow melted into something that still threatened to break. “… Would killing someone as kind as you truly bring anything good into the world?” He looked at him, golden storm raging anew. “I don’t know what my father would do.”

Quiescence drifted once more. Seliph weighed his words carefully before he spoke. “… I don’t know what our fathers would want, but we both live by the ideals we’ve learned from them, even if indirectly,” he began. “Maybe that’s enough. We can’t ask them, but we can ask ourselves what is right and wrong based on what we know of them. You speak like I’m some epitome of kindness, but all I do is stumble. I wonder if our fathers did the same.” He stared, unblinking. “You’re a good man, Ares. If only you would believe it yourself.”

“You hardly know me.”

“I know enough.” Seliph’s grip tightened this time, a gentle reassurance. “When we get out of here, join with us. We can figure out the future together.”

Ares hummed noncommittally. His face was carefully stoic, but his gaze was soft in the moment before it shifted. “We should focus on getting out of here, first,” he said. “What’s with that book anyways? You clung to it for dear life when we fell.”

Seliph glanced at it. “I don’t know. Everything in that room before we jumped happened so fast, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there when we first entered.”

“So? It looks like an old book. It’s not going to help us climb down.”

The binding was indeed worn in places. The cover was blank save for some tarnished gold plating. It was rugged and inelegant, more so than even the tomes he’d seen Arthur struggle with, but it had a weight to it that whispered more than magic. “...I think it feels too out of place not to be real, like it’s somehow enchanted against that sort of thing.” He shrugged. “I don’t really know why I grabbed it beyond… It feels important.”  
“Right,” Ares rolled his eyes, “maybe we can throw it at Julius when he inevitably finds us, and he’ll be distracted by how important it is!”

Seliph huffed a sigh. “Fine. I’ll take a look and toss it.”

The leather cracked when he opened it, even with gentle touches. The parchment was brittle and yellow with age, but the script was written elegantly with the sort of hand that had many years of practice. Seliph traced the confident loops of the letters and wondered how someone so skilled could let their work fall into such disarray. Many pages were torn; it looked like it had been done hastily.

“It’s a diary but,” he flipped a few more pages, “it looks like references to whomever it belonged to were ripped out. I wonder why.”

“Does it matter?” Ares craned his neck to see. “It looks about as interesting as I surmised, and I shouldn’t have to remind you that we’re precariously balanced atop a spire.”

Seliph skimmed a few more pages and didn’t reply. Whomever it was had worked for the king, though most of the dates were too splotched to make out, so he couldn’t be certain of specifics. The writing was eloquent, building monoliths from justice and prose, but there was a strange emptiness to it. Perhaps it was because everything written was related to work, but each entry carried a weight of loneliness. It was a familiar burden, almost too heavy to hold onto. Seliph wondered if the writer had simply let go.

“Wait, this entry is more recent, the ink isn’t faded at all.” He straightened and began to read in earnest.

In youth we’re raised to believe that we can mold the world to our desires. To question this would be to admit that there is no favorable outcome from such pursuits, so we cover our eyes and ears and stumble blindly through life. We fall and rise and fight towards the future, until we are ultimately crushed and reshaped by that which we sought to change. 

Justice dances with a jester’s hat and a thousand masks. I spent years chasing him while he hid behind sin. I believe still that some sacrifice is necessary for a brighter future. Darkness is what makes light beautiful; despair is what makes love whole. The world is full of peril and hope in equal measure, and for every mistake I have been burdened with, I have continued my chase, stumbling blindly as ever. 

Some things cannot be atoned for. If they can, mere atonement isn’t enough. I have been too long lost in the labyrinth of lies that gave rise to an empire. For me, there is only one path left, and it is too late to turn back.

I have hidden the blade from Julius, Tyrfing; the key to my shackles. When the time is right I will deliver it to the one who can bring me justice. 

I look forward to seeing my mother again. 

Seliph stared at the page, reading and rereading it. He could feel Ares’ eyes on him, but neither said anything for a moment that felt like forever. 

“You don’t know that it’s real,” he finally pointed out, but Seliph shook his head, tracing the elegant tail of the ‘y’ on ‘Tyrfing’ before carefully closing the book. 

“… I don’t think something like this can be faked,” he replied. “Not by Loptyr anyways. It’s too… human.” He thought about tossing it, but found himself tucking it into his tunic instead. Such sorrow demanded to be carried. “I’m going to swing over towards the wall. Hold onto me.”

Ares grunted when he moved, but otherwise gave no reply. It felt somehow inappropriate to speak. Seliph pondered how many times death had found him during the ball, and how finally it had succeeded in sewing his mouth shut. He tried to imagine the stranger’s face as they slowly worked their way down the perilous stone, but it was easier to focus on Ares’ warm hand, his heightened breathing. It was easier to focus on melted ice than a fire he’d have to one day put out. 

The walls were old and decorative enough that there were many footholds. It didn’t take them long to reach the bottom, panting. The scalloped brick road they stood atop of was the same one from before, but entering the ball felt much longer than a few hours ago. The sun was bathing the horizon in purples and reds; the sky was dark. In the distance, a forest stood as a giant shroud. 

“… I hope Arthur and Fee made it.” Seliph gripped the book under his cloak. 

“I don’t know that its your friends you should be worrying about,” Ares held out a hand to stop him from moving. “Haven’t you noticed? There’s no birds or bugs making noise. It’s too quiet.”

Seliph paused, but as he opened his mouth to reply the earth began to rumble. He spread his stance for balance and cast his gaze around. “I’d hoped that Julius’ influence would be weaker outside the walls of the castle. You sure you don’t have an extra knife?”

Ares chuckled humorlessly. “No, just this one I don’t intend to give you.” He flipped it in his hand, so he could use it more easily. The rumbling increased, hungry and angry, until the road ahead split open into a gaping maw. Familiar shrieks echoed from below, singing their song of death, rising like bile past rocky teeth. Seliph pivoted back towards the castle, but from the grand entryway corpses poured out, raining down the stairs in a cacophony too loud to think through. 

He pressed his back to Ares as they were surrounded, as torn dresses and suits and wiry hair swarmed closer and closer. He closed his eyes, willing his mother from the din and the colors of his eyelids. Instead, the words of the diary flashed before him; he imagined the face that wrote them. It was a blurry image, like a distortion of water, but the eyes were clear, and they carried the world inside them. They were heavy. They may well have been his own. 

He waited together with his imaginary stranger for the end, but it never came. Silence fell, but there was no blow, no tearing, no pain. Slowly, his eyes peeled open. The corpses were still there, but they were frozen, poised like statues waiting to strike. The fingers that Ares had laced around his twitched, Seliph wasn’t certain when that had happened. He breathed out, slowly, heart thundering in his ears. Then a laugh caught his attention.

In the sky Julius floated, legs crossed lazily as if he was still leaning back against his throne. Perhaps he was. Seliph hardly trusted his eyes anymore. 

“You guys are hilarious!” he exclaimed. “Clinging to each other in the face of death is just one of the most delightful things that humans do! It’s all you’re good for. I mean honestly,” he flashed a smirk at Ares. His teeth were too sharp. “Didn’t you barge your way to this party without an invitation just to kill this guy? And now you’re holding hands?” 

Ares immediately let go while more laughter cascaded around them. Seliph bit his lip, glaring hard as he gripped the book. He felt as if it helped carry his words.

“You promised you wouldn’t sacrifice anyone if we came!” He shouted. “Look at this! These people-” his voice cracked,”-all had families! Lives!” The corpses didn’t react to the tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Julius only laughed harder. 

“Oh please! It’s too much!” He took a long moment to calm himself. Giggles still peppered his words when he continued to speak, but his eyes, red as blood, were hard. Seliph felt himself start to tremble. 

“First off, these guys were already dead. It’s not like I had any shortage of dead people to freshen up and bring out for a last hurrah. Second off,” Julius idly checked his nails; the corpses mirrored his movements in perfect synchronization. He let the momement draw out before looking at them once more. “If I had lied, would it really shock you? Don’t you guys call me the root of all evil or something of the like?”

Seliph was seething. He opened his mouth but Ares’ voice rang out. “You’re a monster!” He shouted. “You speak so little of humans despite using them as puppets to do the work you brag about doing yourself! What a pathetic excuse for a man. I feel sorry for Lady Ishtar.”

Julius became still, and the smile slowly slid off his face. He pursed his lips, and there was an instant where something might have flickered beyond the blood in his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He shifted, uncrossing his legs so he could lean forward and glare down at them. 

“I don’t care much for the opinion of ants,” he spat, “but just for your insolence I’ll make you suffer.”

It happened quickly. Seliph prepared himself to defend against an oncoming swarm as Julius snapped his fingers, but only one lunged. He had just a moment to recognize the woman from earlier and the knife she held before it plunged into his chest. The world spun, he staggered back, and Ares wheeled around to catch him. He shoved the woman away, gasping for air, before reaching up to remove the blade. 

There was no blood when it slid out. As he caught his breath he saw the incredulous look on Julius’ face. For a moment, there was silence. The whole world stood still as he reached into his cloak and pulled out the diary. 

“I guess someone’s looking out for me,” he forced a smile. Ares breathed out a thick sigh of relief. Above them, Julius hissed in frustration.

“I grow weary of your games.” A wave of his hand and the undead staggered back into movement. “Make sure there’s just enough left for me to make use of later.”

Seliph swung the dagger as a man drew closer, but he didn’t flinch. Ares fell into place beside him, grabbing the part of the book that wasn’t already occupied. He tried to imagine his faceless friend standing with them, a soul on fire even in death. It was somehow easier to conjure than the idea of his parents.  
They stood together, mere daggers between themselves and perdition. The first man he kicked away, the second he stabbed and forced back. He could feel Ares moving beside him but didn’t dare to look. There were too many. He wasn’t sure when his weapon was knocked away, but he screamed when teeth sank into his shoulder. 

A gust of wind hit him like a wave, splattering flecks of red into the air as it thundered around them. He grit his teeth against the throbbing pain and squared himself for balance. Ares pressed closer so as not to be dragged away. Vaguely, Seliph wondered if the heat between them was from his blood or not. 

Bodies rolled past them, screeching like banshees, clawing against the ground for leverage. Blades of green thwarted their attempts. He recognized that magic.

“Now’s the part where you do the running thing, guys!” Arthur’s voice rang above their heads. Fee’s pegasus came crashing through Julius, who flickered like a dying candle and hissed loudly. She flashed a smile as she passed over them and Arthur released another spell onto the road. More bodies scattered. “I can’t keep the path cleared forever!”

They took off across the brick, book still between them, clattering loudly. A roar settled behind, whether it was from Arthur’s magic or the angry hoard was impossible to tell; it all merged into one incorrigible din. Seliph ran like he’d never run before, until his lungs were raw with every breath. They hit the treeline, branches whipping and cracking in their wake, wingbeats echoing above. They ran against the darkness until it swallowed them whole, until there was no more sound beyond their panting.

A clearing opened, just bright enough to see, and he stumbled to a halt. As he doubled over for breath, Seliph marveled at how little the chirping bugs and the owls seemed to care for what had happened. The music of the forest was indifferent to the throbbing in his shoulder and the burning in his chest. 

“Here,” Ares’ voice drew him from his reverie, and he fumbled to catch the vulnerary that was tossed in his direction. “That will tide you until you can get to a healer.”

Seliph struggled to uncork the bottle, but once the salve hit his skin he sighed in relief. “You make it sound as if you aren’t coming too.” He stole a furtive glance. To his surprise, there was a chuckle in reply.

“You’re frustratingly simple.” Ares shifted to help remove the fabric from the wound, and, with gentle touches, applied the salve more liberally. “There’s someone who I need to help before I switch sides, and I need Mystletainn-”

“-but you’ll come?” Seliph straightened eagerly, then grimaced at the movement. Ares rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I’ll come, but-” he pressed into the blood, earning a sharp gasp, “- you had better not betray my trust. My blade is far less forgiving than I.”

Seliph wondered if that was true. Ares flushed and looked away. Above, the soft flutter of wings broke from the treeline, and Fee guided her pegasus down to the ground. Arthur slid off and kissed the dirt. 

“Thank the gods,” he groaned. 

“Ugh, don’t be such a baby, Artie.”

Ares’ touch faded, and Seliph turned to find him already retreating to the edge of the clearing. Their eyes met, one final moment of melted ice on warm waves, and then with a nod he was gone. 

Fee leaned forward, cooing at her companion for a job well done, but her gaze was on where he had last been. 

“Who was that guy, anyways?” She asked.

Seliph shrugged, the dull pain that came with it reminded him that he was alive. He was muddy and dirty and bloody and alive. More so perhaps, than he’d been in a long time.

“A friend, I think,” he said at length. “Maybe something more.”


End file.
